


it only takes a moment...

by emavee



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Court of Owls, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick Grayson is not a Talon yet but he will be one soon, Electrocution, Hallucinations, Hurt Dick Grayson, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26752075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: Dick wakes up alone, achy and starving and bolted to a table.Whumptober Day 1: waking up restrained
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948276
Comments: 7
Kudos: 135





	it only takes a moment...

**Author's Note:**

> Alright I'm going to try my hand at whumptober this year! I have about 12 prompts filled already, so hopefully I can get through the whole month! They're going to be mostly Dick-centric but the rest of the fam will also pop up
> 
> WARNING: Dick is about fourteen here, so please be cautious about violence against a child

Dick jerks awake suddenly, and for one blessed moment, nothing hurts, and he can pretend. But then his wrists catch on the harsh metal cuffs and it all comes flooding back. He’s not at home in his bed, comfy and warm and  _ safe,  _ but strapped to a cold metal table and staring at a blank white ceiling. 

He strains and twists and can barely see more than a few feet in any direction, but he appears to be alone. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw another person. At least, another person that he could be sure wasn’t a drug- and exhaustion-induced hallucination. 

He wants Bruce. He really, really, really wants Bruce. If Bruce were here, everything would be okay, he just _knows_ _it._ Bruce would be able to fix everything. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the feeling of callused fingers brushing his hair off of his clammy forehead. It makes everything so much worse, because Bruce isn’t here and he’s sort of hallucinating again and it’s even more terrible than before because surely the drugs have worn off by now which just means that Dick is already starting to lose it.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but suddenly he’s really, really scared. He tugs uselessly on the restraints, unable to stop the tears from falling. They trail down his temples, pooling on the metal table. He’s too weak to really put up too much of a struggle, but still he can already feel the blood starting to well up where the metal is rubbing his skin raw. It barely hurts, blending seamlessly into the full-body ache that already encompasses him.

He remembers teasing Bruce at dinner and Alfred getting on him to eat his vegetables, but it was so long ago now. It feels like forever ago. He misses them so much that it aches, deep in his chest, a gaping hole that’s threatening to swallow him up.

He’s starving, stomach so empty it  _ aches.  _ And his mouth and throat feel like sandpaper, even though he drank that water, the horrible cursed fountain water that made him scream and cry and hallucinate until he thought for sure that he’d go mad. 

(People he’d failed to save on patrol, staring at him, following him everywhere he goes. Bruce, with his back turned, refusing to face him, to hear him, to save him. His parents in their bloody leotards, bones crooked and twisted and shattered, clicking and shuttering as they move. They’d called to him, over and over, with wide, warm smiles on their bloody faces and Dick had wanted nothing more than to go with them. He’d stumbled into his mother’s waiting arms and wound up on this godforsaken table in this all white room.)

He lays there, panting and anxious for what feels like forever, but at least it’s a shorter forever than the time he spent in that maze. It’s the helplessness, the directionlessness, the loneliness that are killing him. 

He’s never felt like this ever before. The closest he’s gotten was back when his parents died, but something about this is different. It’s breaking him down more and more with every moment. 

He always thought he was pretty damn strong—he’s Batman’s partner for crying out loud—but he’s so tired and frayed right now, he knows it probably won’t take very much for him to shatter. It’s  _ humiliating. _ Bruce would be so disappointed in him right now.

(But at least, if Bruce could see him now, he would be here. Dick wouldn’t be alone and Bruce would be here and everything would be okay even if he had to face that disappointment.)

Finally people appear around him like apparitions, people in these terrifying, creepy white masks with hooked beaks. Owls. They look like owls.

There had been owls on the walls in that maze. One had stared down at him when he first woke up there, alone and confused on the floor, left with no instruction and nothing to do but to wander nonstop for what had felt like days.

Well, they’ve established a theme. Dick hates it. He knows for sure that he’ll never be able to look at an owl again without feeling sick.

The Owls descend upon him, cold and efficient as they go about their business, ignoring his struggles as if he’s not making any sound at all.

A sharp pinch in the inside of his elbow; they’re inserting an IV into his arm. He strains to see the bag it’s connected to and immediately regrets it. The liquid inside is inky black and sinister, and can’t mean anything good.

They continue to prep equipment and Dick continues to try his best not to flinch when they get too close. One of the Owls presses something sticky to his temples and suddenly Dick’s heart is thump-thumping too loud to hear anything else.  _ Electrodes. _ He whines, shaking his head back and forth frantically to no avail. He wants them  _ off. _

It doesn’t work. He’s so cold and tired and scared and his whole body aches but he knows the pain is only just getting started. The black liquid is inching its way into his veins, feels like it's freezing him from the inside out. Surely once it reaches his heart he’ll shatter. 

He’s so so scared and he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to lay trapped and helpless on a cold metal table and  _ hurt. _ He wants to go home. It’s all he can think, over and over and over and over.

And then none of it matters. Not how hungry he is or how thirsty. Not how tired or scared or alone. Not how much he wishes Bruce were here to hold his hand and stroke his hair. 

Nothing matters except the gut-wrenching cold that is flowing through his veins and the searing agony that follows. He is being torn apart, blood turning to shards of ice and bones filling with molten lead. None of it makes any sense, horribly unnatural as it tears him apart from the inside. 

He screams, loud and frantic and like no other sound he’s ever made in his entire life, like nothing he’s ever heard before. It’s animalistic, nearly unrecognizable as his own voice, flaying his throat raw but that pain doesn’t even matter, doesn’t even  _ register. _

He screams and screams, but no one is coming. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of probably four, three of which will also be a part of whumptober


End file.
